Last night my housemate and I decided to take our dogs for a walk around the block after dinner.

Just before we walked out the door, I put on a second jumper and cursed Melbourne.

Two jumpers. In April.

(Which, for those of you in the northern hemisphere, means mid-fall/autumn).

So it's time, already, to dig out dense, wooly, sweater-beasts, and unpack robust oil-skin boots that click heavily on rain-slicked city pavements. To rally up a collection of beanies that complement your messy hair; to wrap scarves in and around anything; to tuck your knees up to your chest and huddle against the southern winter.

From now on, I think there'll be lots grey knits, grey skies and brass jewellery; late-night fireside chats in the backyard, fueled by warming whiskey and spiced rum; Sunday afternoon couch snuggles with Scotty and Humble the baby dog; soy hot chocolates from the laneways on my lunchbreak; reading and re-reading the writers who make you forget the weather and the world; more boots, buckles, leather, metal -- flannelette, denim, conchos, studs; and sketchbooks full of seasonal optimism, waiting for the world to warm again.